A Taste Of The Old Days
by sneauxfo
Summary: Knight never did forget Six's birthday.  Set right after 'Promises, Promises'.


**01000001 00100000 01010100 01100001 01110011 01110100 01100101 00100000 01001111 01100110**

**Title-** A Taste Of The Old Days

**Summary-** Knight never did forget Six's birthday. (Set right after ''Promises, Promises''.)

**01010100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01001111 01101100 01100100 00100000 01000100 01100001 01111001 01110011**

Go the same pace long enough, and it becomes customary. Achieve a distance from something, no matter how near it once was, and all it takes is a sufficient while before the space begins to feel standard. Extreme opposites of a spectrum can swap. Even the Earth changes polarity every two hundred and fifty thousand years.

And Six is very adaptable.

He was once comfortable using firearms, back in his trainee days; it was in the set orientation syllabus for recruits. When he had first picked up his swords, it took some time to get used to closing in on his targets rather than taking them down from a distance; it took time to get used to being in such close proximity to danger. Now, Six doesn't hesitate. His swords are a part of him, as if they were veined with his blood. He's no longer comfortable feeling his arms stapled against his torso, supporting a clunky metal weight that had to be reloaded.

Six knows how it's done; he knows how to just flip the switch in his mind and never look back.

_"So, what crawled up your coat?"_

When he's summoned, Six expects an order of some kind; perhaps it would be for them to keep the celebratory noise down, or for Six to investigate an area of the Keep that surveillance cams had suddenly gone faulty in, or one of the incurable Evos in the Petting Zoo happened to be causing more trouble than it was worth and White Knight would want it dealt with quietly.

"Agent Six."

And Six merely nods in response to the formal address.

It's then that he marks the sudden change of the man on the screen before him. There's something off about White Knight tonight. He seems awkward. Off the screen, he appears to be fumbling around with something to side. It sounds like clinking.

Shortly after, White Knight opens his mouth to speak, but as if second guessing his ability to form words, only gestures down at the airlock. Six approaches dutifully, hand already reaching forward to take whatever item inside.

The hatch slides open.

_"Oh, by the way. Happy birthday."_

The echo hits him like a sock in the gut, and it jars him for a moment- sucks him into another time, another place. But when he double-takes, Knight has pale-blond hair and cold gray eyes, and is still only a bleached picture on a glowing screen. And actually hasn't said anything, for which Six is partially glad...and yet.

It's a slice of cake that's in the airlock. A clean-cut triangular shape resting blamelessly on a dainty ceramic plate alongside a silver fork. But it's the kind of cake it is that has Six automatically lifting it out. Just the scent takes him back to an age in the war when two partners, starving and stranded in a red zone, slumped down in the kitchen of an abandoned suburban home, ravenously scarfing down what could may have well been their last meal.

_"I would have been hurt, but you could've been killed. And now, we're both stuck here."_

_"Six, if we do live through this, remind me to get you a dictionary so you can look up the word 'friend'."_

After that, it just grew into an unofficial custom to get a hold of that same type of cake after a particularly rough day in the field. And there had been many rough days.

Presently, White Knight is still behaving uncharacteristic of himself, avoiding a direct gaze. "I heard about Doctor Holiday's botched attempt at domesticity."

Six neither confirms nor denies the statement. What he does is take a bite. And it takes him off guard. Because surprisingly, this cake is edible. Surprisingly, it tastes...

_A solid smack on his shoulder. A snoring weight against his arm. Someone else's dirty hands lightly slapping him awake. Blood slipping past his own fingers as he tries to staunch the other man's wound. A strong pound on the chest by way of greeting from that person._

...exact.

Ironically, he can't even put a name to the cake. But he knows it, sure as he knows precisely what shade of green he prefers. It's smooth and yielding, melting upon his tongue; he barely has to chew. _Barely has to work at it. Swinging and leaping through transpiring destruction. He has the main target in sight. From behind him, there's a gun firing systematically through the loops he weaves with his swords. He's covered. He doesn't have to look back to know. He just _knows_. He closes in, free of worry._

The flavor is rich, with hints of spice. _Utterly surrounded, very possibly overpowered. This insane war with its pandemonium and continual spawning of monsters that look like they stepped straight from a horror movie. From a nightmare._

_And yet, a presence always with his, confirmed by a voice on the other end of a wire. Someone who calls him "partner"._

A tangible bitterness.

_"That's enough," Six cuts in firmly, shoving the firearm downward so that it halts shooting at the twitching carcass only a few yards away. "It was the same as us at some point. Or have you forgotten? You and I could both turn into monsters, too, at any given moment."_

_"But we haven't. _They_ have." Knight shakes off Six's grip. "I like you, Six, but if you turn, I'm not gonna stand back and let you add to humanity's body count. And I'd expect the same courtesy from you if it were me running loose and mangling people."_

Nonetheless, it was lightly frosted and subtly sweet throughout. Like a smile he hasn't seen in years. A laugh he can't quite recall anymore. A touch that was always so rowdy, always so honest. (It was strange how little things such as those could define a person, and how their absence could result in a difference so drastic.) It was a time that he never thought to remember, because it just hadn't crossed his mind that he'd ever forget. Thereafter, a disagreement. An instant distance just as physical as it was emotional. Days, that Six had thought nothing of, that had so surreptitiously stretched to years.

And now...

The fork clinks on the plate as he carves out another morsel. Six finally speaks. He says, "It's good." Was.

White Knight clears his throat and nods. "You're dismissed after I send milk."

_"Oh, by the way. Happy birthday."_

_"How did you know?"_

_"I'm your partner. Can't keep much from me."_

_"...Thanks."_

**011001010110111001100100**


End file.
